Until This is Over
by D.L. SchizoAuthoress
Summary: Richard and Justin run into some difficulties with The Plan. Missing-scene fic. (Warning: violence, strong language, brief scene of m/m intimacy) Chapter Three posted.
1. Until This is Over

A/N: Apologies, apologies. I was watching MbN over to get a feeling for how "Philosophers" should end and instead came up with this. It took me an hour of watching, pausing, and transcibing the damned first scene, which is almost completely from the movie. You know where it ends, and where my imagination begins.   
  
"Until This is Over"  
  
a murder by numbers fanfic by SchizoAuthoress  
  
"You threw up?" Richard asked, incredulous. "Man, why didn't you tell me?"  
  
Unable to meet Richard's gaze, Justin shifted uncomfortably against the back fender of his car and mumbled, "I don't even remember doing it."  
  
"I don't remember," Richard scoffed, disbelieving. He looked away as well, staring into the distance.   
  
Finally, worriedly, he asked, "Well, what if they ID you?" and lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. Justin pressed his fingers to his forehead, wincing as Richard--with eerie accuracy--named the very thing that had been bothering Justin ever since he remembered the incident. "With, with DNA or something like that; can they do that?"  
  
Justin glanced up. "I doubt it," he said softly, turned to face Richard, pleading for forgiveness with his eyes. "I mean, the stomach acids usually eat away at whatever..." He trailed off.  
  
"You doubt it?" Richard repeated. He didn't want doubts, they didn't need to have, couldn't afford to have, doubts at this stage in the game.   
  
"I doubt--" Justin began, but Richard swiftly cut him off with a derisive half-chuckle,  
  
"This could get us the fucking electric chair and you doubt it."  
  
"Gas chamber," Justin corrected in a dulled, unfeeling tone.  
  
Richard darted a confused, angry glance at Justin's face, saw nothing in the way of emotion there, and was frightened. "What?" He demanded.  
  
Justin's eyes flicked toward him momentarily as he explained, "California uses a gas chamber."  
  
Richard looked away for a moment, marvelling at the insanity of the conversation. He couldn't believe it. He was talking about being executed, killed, snuffed out, kaput, the end...and here was this shrinking violet little genius bastard splitting hairs over the method of execution. Sarcastically, Richard shot back, "Oh, that's very informative."  
  
"It doesn't matter," Justin mumbled.  
  
No, thanks, thank you. And you told her that you tutor me, too?" He wet his lips nervously, watching Justin pacing slightly, stopping, and returning to his previous position leaning against his car. "God, what are you thinking?!"  
  
Something flared in Justin's eyes, something akin to anger. But it couldn't be, because Justin never really felt anything. Justin was a superman--as Nietzsche might have said, ein übermensch--unweighted by human morality and reasoning. Richard felt a pang of fear as Justin strode closer, eyes burning with coldness.   
  
"I was thinking," Justin snapped, in a louder-than-usual voice, "that if she found out on her own, and I hadn't mentioned it, it would look even worse."  
  
Richard stared at him blankly. A beat. He nodded and muttered, "Yeah."  
  
Justin pulled back, the psuedo-emotion falling away, replaced by his more common, more familiar control. "They have nothing," he reassured Richard, once again radiating a plea for forgiveness, for understanding.   
  
Richard considered this, lifting his cigarette to his lips. His eyes shifted from Justin, then away, then to Justin again as he inhaled. Smoke curled like a tiny white serpent from his lips as he amended, "They have nothing on me."  
  
Justin looked at Richard again, vaguely surprised and equally amused at this statement. It took him only a moment to make his soft face void of even these faint vestiges of feeling, and he remarked, in a low voice that contained a gravelly, challenging undertone, "Don't worry, I'm not a back-stabber like you, Richard."  
  
Richard raised his eyebrows at this, the beginnings of his beautiful, charming, false smile curving his mouth. He started, and was cut off by his own cynical laugh, "I'm the back-sta--" Suddenly, his expression changed to one of anger, near fury, "How am I the back-stab..." He couldn't even finish the distasteful word. He threw the ash-laden end of his near-dead cigarette at Justin and watched with satisfaction as the other boy jumped, brushing the flecks of hot ash off his shirt. He yelled, "I'm not the one talking, /Justin/, I'm not the one giving away all the information!"   
  
Justin figited uncomfortably. Richard glared at him, digusted.  
  
"I'm not the one trying to get us caught because I'm a scared little bitch who feels /guilty!/"  
  
"Don't talk to me like that, okay?" Justin asked flatly, closing his eyes for a second. His patience, his near-infinte patience, was reaching its end.   
  
Richard ignored the implied warning and snapped, "I'll talk to you any way that I /want/ to." He continued, beginning to tighten his net of manipulation again. "I trust you, I depend on you for all this forensic stuff, and you have no idea what you're talking about!"  
  
Justin raised both eyebrows in a skeptical look, nodding once slightly as though he accepted Richard's misguided opinion. Despite the fact that Richard looked, and even more, sounded like he might just cry, Justin did not react to that at all. But the other boy was starting to get hysterical, and that was undesirable.   
  
"You're supposed to be the smart one," Richard cried, nearly on a sob.  
  
Calmly, quietly, almost with a laugh, Justin ordered, "Stop, just sto--."  
  
Richard interrupted, "No, you're supposed to be the smart one! You're not smart, you're dumb!"  
  
There was no warning. Nothing, nothing except for Justin's harsh shouted command, "Stop!" and in the same instant, a fist connected sharply with Richard's face. The force of the blow spun him to fall against his own car, half-sprawled against the sloping back. He could feel Justin's presence, feel the violence in it, as the soft-faced blond stood unseen behind him. His elbows rested on the trunk as he clapped a hand to his nose, the warm, sharp sting of pain and the copper smell of blood in his nostrils.   
  
There was remorse in Justin's gaze as Richard turned back. He mumbled low, "I'm sorry."  
  
Richard looked at him and sniffed, touching his upper lip carefully with his fingertips. He glanced down at them, seeing the red wetness shining there in the sunlight, and repeated the motion to make certain that the blood really was there. A triumphant smile formed on his lips as Justin looked down, ashamed. Reaching out, Richard pulled Justin into an embrace, continuing to stare at his fingers as if transfixed.   
  
Justin stood in the half-circle of Richard's left arm, unresponsive, simply allowing this physical contact. Mockingly, Richard said, "That's a good boy."  
  
Justin said nothing.  
  
"Heh," Richard wondered, "You're not still mad about that girl, are you?" Justin narrowed his eyes; the pain of Richard's betrayal continued as a dull, neverending ache beneath his icy veneer. He stared ahead with veiled eyes, unseeing, breathing in the intense, combined scent of expensive red leather mixed with imported cologne and cheap cigarette smoke. Essence of Richard.   
  
Richard pulled Justin's head back so that they faced each other, lifting his hands up to rest almost possessively against Justin's face. The blond's face was cradled in his grasp, the heels of his hands resting gently, without threat, at his neck, feeling a pulse beating steadily there. He raked gentle fingers through the dirty golden strands, pushing them away from Justin's face.   
  
Justin stiffened, inhaling sharply at the univited gesture. He grabbed Richard's hands, holding them tightly in place and away. His blue eyes, half-lidded and alluring, stared impassively into Richard's own as he pushed Richard's hands back down, whispering,   
  
"Let's just stick together and stay calm until this is over, okay?"  
  
Richard looked back at Justin, eyes narrowed against the brightness of the light, unaware of the tiny trickle of blood flowing to his lip and down his chin. An enigma, wrapped up in a mystery, surrounded by conundrum...Justin Pendleton was that enigma. But Richard merely shrugged, licking his lips--tasting metallic saltiness as he did so--and asked, "And then what?"  
  
Justin appeared shaken by the question. He shrugged, shook his head, finding himself unable to answer, and walked away. Down the path that led to the edge of the cliffs, hugging the brink of where solidity met nothingness as it gently sloped to the rock-strewn beach.   
  
Richard turned, watching him go, and yelled, "And then what, Justin?" When Justin didn't come back, didn't even acknowledge Richard's question, Richard demanded, "Where are you going?"  
  
"To the rocks," Justin replied without turning. In very little time, he reached a bend in the path and disappeared from view.   
  
Biting back a curse, Richard followed him.  
  
~End Part One~ 


	2. The Systematic Derangement of Our Senses

A/N: Flashbacky bit at first. I seperated it because it's another missing scene, out of sequence with the last one. As the title of this part suggests, it's right after the absinthe scene. (Don't worry, readers of "Philosophers," I shall finish that story soon, like I promised.)  
  
Oh, and for the prudish among the MbN faithful--does such a species of MbNfan exist? (artuta, I know that you and I are not it, my snazzy friend!)--I apologize for the slightly smutty nature of Part Two.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Until This is Over" (a murder by numbers fanfic by SchizoAuthoress)  
  
"Part Two: To the Systematic Derangement of Our Senses"  
  
It was a strange and intense relationship, one of the most strange and intense of all the relationships that Richard Haywood had ever experienced. At times, he was completely convinced that he despised Justin Pendleton, that nothing would make him happier than to see that damnably superior, arrogant bastard suffocating and totally at his mercy. Other times, he desperately craved Justin's presence and Justin's touch, no matter how cold and unfeeling, he ached somewhere deep within himself to coalesce with Justin's beautifully unhuman being. Both of these times were infrequent, surrounded by periods of confusion and ambivalence.   
  
But not tonight. Not tonight, not with jade-green liquid poison flowing through his veins and warping his senses. Not tonight, not as he pinned Justin down to the mattress and kissed him repeatedly, burning with a furious lust and an uncontrollable need.   
  
Justin gasped hungrily for breath each time Richard released his bruised mouth, struggling slightly with the cruel grip that Richard held on his wrists.   
  
"Stop it," Richard rasped, "Don't fight."  
  
"You're /hurting/ me!" Justin cried out in protest, his voice almost childlike in his insistence.   
  
Repentantly, Richard brushed his lips gently to the soft smoothness of Justin's flushed cheek, letting go. "I'm sorry. It's just...you...you and I..." He trailed off, opting instead to blow softly into Justin's ear, hands caressing the blond's bare torso, fingers teasingly sliding below the waistband of Justin's slacks only to linger there and trace lazy invisible swirls on pale flesh.   
  
Justin writhed beneath the nearly crushing weight of Richard's body pressed to his, as though Richard meant to meld their bodies together inextricably by that simple contact. A low moan sounded, whether from Richard's throat or his own Justin couldn't tell, and he was unfastening the designer belt at Richard's waist, shoving the denim fabric away impatiently. Then the hard warmth of Richard's erection was pressed against him, as Richard hastily undid the buttons on his satin shirt.   
  
"Richard..." Justin gasped as he slipped out of his own black pants and briefs, arching his body luxuriously. Using his right elbow to prop himself up, Justin stroked Richard's back with the fingertips of his left hand, creeping slowly up the ridges of muscle and bone beneath fever-hot skin.   
  
Richard closed his eyes. What was it that drove him so inexorably into Justin's embrace? It wasn't lust alone, nor was it love. It wasn't simple manipulation, nor was it any single kind of hate.   
  
Perhaps it could be said to be a compulsion; the compulsion to destroy himself mixed with his inexplicable desire to become a part of the terrifying purity of Justin's essence. To wipe out everything that had come before, everything connected with Justin Pendleton and Richard Haywood. To recreate their seperate selves as one being.   
  
It was insanity.   
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Justin!" Richard called out, exasperated. He picked his way gingerly down among the jagged rocks littering the rough sand of the beach, grumbling, "If I scuff these boots, you are so dead, Pendleton..."   
  
The sea rumbled ceaselessly, a natural background static. Richard rubbed at his mouth with a fisted hand, irritated by his inability to locate the other boy. Tiny reddish flakes of dried blood came away and stuck to his hand. He spotted an untidy pile of stone, stacked in a large mound that he could climb for a higher vantage point of the beach.  
  
As he made his way slowly up, he called again, "Jus--"   
  
The stone his foot was on slid down, causing him to lose balance and cut off. He scrambled momentarily for a handhold, found one, and decided that it was best to avoid such rock formations in the future. Instead, he sat down and stubbornly resolved to wait for Justin to come back. He had to come back.   
  
Didn't he?  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Justin lay on the rocks and stared up into the sky, a sky so blue as to be sickeningly bright and cheerful, with wispy little snow-colored cotton-candy-like clouds. His eyes self-destructively sought out the hot halo of blinding white-yellow sunlight, and he imagined.   
  
Imagined is perhaps the improper word. It speaks of children's games and fantasy worlds. No, Justin envisioned himself falling out of that gorgeous blue sky to lie dashed upon the jagged rocks, bleeding from a twisted, broken body and rising above all that to something greater.   
  
He heard Richard's call of "Justin!" and again later, cut off, "Jus--!"  
  
And for a moment he entertained the thought of going to back to Richard. To see if perhaps the other young man was hurt. The thought was abandoned.   
  
It was cool and, while not comfortable, familiar on this rocky beach. Justin closed his eyes, resolving to push Richard Haywood from his mind for at least a few minutes.  
  
~~End Part Two~~  
  
Further A/N: I've noticed that this is a lot darker and of a 'colder' narration than "Philosophers of Maybe." Hm, more in keeping with the general atmosphere of the category than my usual offerings, I suppose.   
  
(Although, damn, wouldn't you readers get a little bored without me and artuta cranking out the oddballs like "Your Body is A Wonderland," "Justin Gets Hit By a Car," "Lisa in Wonderland," and so on? ^_^ You know you would. And yes, I /have/ sunk to shameless promotion of my favorite authors and myself.) 


	3. Bang! You're Dead

A/N: Okay, here's where the story goes Frankenstein on me and gets a life of its own. Believe me, I wanted to keep this simple, but scary-ubermensch-Justin!muse decided to crash the party. I'm not gonna be messy by labeling them with POVs, you guys are smart enough to know who's who and suchlike.  
  
(The next part is going to have two titles; sorry about the length of Part Four in advance.)  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Until This is Over" (a murder by numbers fanfic by SchizoAuthoress)  
  
"Part Three: Bang! You're Dead."  
  
A shrill cry, tiny and pitiful, sounded as the little victim beat futilely about her attacker's head. A heavy blow from the large attacker temporarily stunned the victim and drew blood, splatters of bright, candy-apple red on green grass.   
  
Richard shifted restlessly in his seat, leaning forward just a little bit more to stare out the window down at the lawn, where the Pendletons' grey tabby was engaged in killing a bird. Justin's head was bowed over the biology textbook; the blond was mentally summarizing the next section in order to best explain it to Richard. Both ignored the other, absorbed in their seperate tasks.   
  
Outside, the tabby had released the small sparrow. The bird hopped once, twice, away from the cat, unable to fly because her wing had been torn by the cat's open-clawed strike. Brilliantly cruel eyes watched her as she darted panicked glances at her surroundings, and the cat watched as well.   
  
A sudden pounce, and Richard tensed, nearly snapping his pencil in two. The broken body of the bird tumbled away, trailing blood and ragged, blood-darkened feathers. The cat bared his fangs, leaping after it. A faint crunch as the cat took the bird's head into his mouth and snapped the neck, and then the small belly was ripped open, spilling pink entrails and red blood.   
  
"Richard, please stop being morbid."  
  
Richard jumped, brought out of his single-track focus by Justin's soft, scolding tone of voice. He looked up and saw Justin, elbow on the desk and chin on fist, watching him watching the cat. Cool amusement glittered in those hard, midnight blue orbs as Justin regarded him with detatched curiousity.   
  
"I'm not being morbid," Richard replied defensively. "How am I being morbid?"  
  
"You're watching Tigger kill another sparrow." Justin deadpanned, "That is morbid."  
  
Richard picked up his pack of cigarettes from the windowsill, turned his back on the window, and rummaged in his coat pockets for his lighter. Sarcastically, he snapped back, "Oh, and planning to /murder/ people in cold blood isn't morbid at /all/."  
  
Justin laughed softly and mocked, "Feeling a little squeamish about The Plan?"  
  
Richard's pale eyes were hotly furious as they flicked toward his companion, thin streams of smoke caressing his lean, angular face, but he did not reply. Justin smiled at his silence and inquired sweetly, "Ready for some biology, then?"  
  
Richard scowled, but replied calmly, "Go ahead."  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
A few weeks ago, Richard had been carelessly paging through the books in my room when he realized that they all had to do with philosophy, true crime, and forensics. Upon questioning me about the subject matter, Richard had found his imagination sparked by the macabre idea of killing someone and getting away with it. He wasn't in it for the philosophical matters, or for freedom. It was a cheap thrill for a rich boy with everything he wanted.   
  
Perhaps not /everything/.   
  
It isn't common currency in the town rumor mill, but a few people mutter among themselves that Richard Haywood is...as they delicately put it, a bit queer. It doesn't really matter to me. If he finds himself attracted to me--for whatever strange reason that I certainly can't see--then good for him. He'll be more willing to give me control.  
  
Watching him watch my mother's cat, I can see that he has a childish fascination with death. He likes to see small things die. But a person? Could he kill a person with that same brilliant, heartless spark of cruel curiousity, or would he fail me? Could he even watch such a thing without having doubts?   
  
I don't think so. But I suppose that I have backed myself into a corner. It was a mistake, really, to let Richard Haywood into this Plan so quickly and completely. A small mistake, and thus permissable, as long as it doesn't take on that nasty habit that mistakes have, which is to multiply into a million little mistakes, weighing down even the best and most detailed of planning until all crashes down around the planner.   
  
I won't let it happen.   
  
~End Part Three~ 


End file.
